


keep your flame

by starstreaked



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: F/M, Poor Zelda, enjoy it anyway i guess???, i wrote this in one sitting because i'm ~crazy~, someone please give her a hug, this is too long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 04:03:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstreaked/pseuds/starstreaked
Summary: Zelda is five when she learns who she's supposed to be.Or, alternately: the life of a princess, in flashes.





	keep your flame

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone!!!! it is i, Late to the BotW Party. i'm pretty sure this is a step beyond "fashionably late." also!!!! im 85% sure this is Bad because it is very long and i only half-edited it, but i had a lot of fun writing it so i hope anyone out there enjoys it too. to anyone who even clicked on it: i love and appreciate you. you can do anything. you can ace that test. you can talk to that person. you can take down the government. i believe in you!!! fun fact: i wrote this instead of doing my sat prep. now you know i've got my priorities straight. :D

Zelda is five when she first learns who she’s supposed to be.

She stands before her closed door, hand frozen at the knob. When she first noticed her parents outside her chambers, she crawled out of bed, curiosity thrumming in her veins. Zelda planned on opening her door—planned on asking what they were doing in the corridors so late at night—but the soft drift of their voices stopped her short.

“Rhoam,” says her mother, with a quiet desperation, “she is too young. We cannot force it upon her yet. Even Impa agrees with me.”

Her father sighs, weary with dawning old age and resigned understanding. “I know you’re right, Elana. I only—I hate to push it upon her suddenly, when she’s been deceived into normalcy for so long.”

“We aren’t deceiving her,” says Elana, more firm. “We are letting our daughter be a child while she still can, and that is far from a crime.”

“She is not only a child,” the king reminds her softly. “She is a princess, and beyond that, she is a princess destined to bring down great evil. We cannot promise her a normal childhood anymore than we could promise ourselves normal lives.”

“You know that I love you, and that I respect your decisions,” says Elana, “but Zelda is _ five _. She already knows about my power, that she will have it too. I refuse to tell her any more until she’s old enough to grasp its importance.”

Zelda huffs, scowling at the door. She’s old enough already. She knows being a queen will be hard, and that a princess has duties most children cannot understand. But she is different, surely; all the knights and nobles ruffle her hair, calling her the smartest child they’ve ever encountered. Surely all that praise isn’t for nothing.

Whatever it is her mother is keeping from her, Zelda decides she can handle it.

She pushes the door open. Her parents jump, their faces lit with dim lamplit.

“Zelda!” snaps Elana, and she bends down to her daughter’s eye-level. “What in Hylia are you doing awake this late at night?”

Zelda shrugs her mother’s hand away from her shoulders and crosses her arms. “I heard you,” she tells her parents, tilting her chin up. “I know you’re keeping something from me.”

Elana glances back at Rhoam. They share a brief look of concern. “What did you hear, little bird?” asks Elana in her gentlest voice.

Zelda loses some of her bravado at her mother’s unexpected softness. “I—I heard you talking about me,” she says. “Father said—he said I was. . . _ destined _ for something. For fighting evil. And then you said I was too young.” She scowls again. “I’m _ not _ too young.”

“Oh, Zelda,” says her mother, and the deep sadness in her voice confuses Zelda. She expected anger, expected to be scolded; eavesdropping was decidedly unprincessly. Elana sighs and strokes a hand through Zelda’s golden hair. “I suppose I have no one to blame but myself, don’t I, Rhoam?”

Zelda’s father crouches beside them, soft, kind face a sharp contrast to his usual sturdy sternness. “It was bound to happen eventually, dear,” he says, but he too sounds grave. “Our daughter is a clever one.”

Elana smiles. “Yes, she doesn’t miss a thing, does she?” 

Zelda looks between them, baffled. “What is it?” she demands, taking her hair back from her mother’s grasp and narrowing them both with her most serious look. “Tell me.”

“I’ll tell you, little bird,” agrees Elana, and this time she takes Zelda’s hands in her own. “I wish I could ask you not to worry, but you are my daughter. Zelda,” she begins, “you know of Hylia’s blessing—the power that flows through the women of the royal family. You know you possess this power, but what you don’t know—” She hesitates, and Rhoam squeezes her upper arm. She gives him a grateful look. “For all Hylia’s grace, for all the wisdom and goodness of the goddesses, there is just as much darkness.” She casts a wry smile. “‘Tis how the universe is balanced. And this darkness has an outlet, a third crest.”

“Three!” exclaims Zelda, and beams, proud of her connection. “You mean the Triforce of Power?”

“Smart girl,” says Elana. “You are right. Two sections of the Triforce belong to two individuals, as they have throughout the ages of time. Always a princess blessed by Hylia herself, always a hero wielding a sword capable of sealing back darkness. The two join together in every legend, and with their combined power they are able to destroy their missing piece.” She brushes a strand of hair from Zelda’s face. “Ganon is the name this third piece goes by.”

“I’ve heard this story,” says Zelda. “Lady Impa told me once.”

Elana laughs. “Yes, our Impa is very well-versed in her storytelling, isn’t she?” Her smile fades, and she looks into her daughter’s eyes. Zelda can’t quite grasp the distant sorrow there, nor the way her mother’s grip on her fingers tightens. “You are the princess of our age, my love,” she whispers. “You are the one blessed with the power to destroy Ganon. It is on the rise once more.”

Zelda blinks. “_ Me _?” she says, poking a finger into her own chest. “I’m the one who gets to fight evil with the hero?”

“Yes,” says Rhoam. “And as much as I despise the weight such knowledge places on your young shoulders, I doubt Hylia could have chosen a better princess to fight for her.” He leans in, and his scruffy beard brushes her cheek when he kisses it. Zelda giggles. “You are amazing, my daughter,” he tells her, and beside him Elana gives a watery smile.

Zelda twists her hands, trying in vain to conceal her excitement. She doesn’t understand her parents’ resignation—she has the power to save her kingdom, to fight back any darkness that dares leak into Hyrule. 

“Mother,” she says. Elana looks up. “When will my power come? How long do I have to wait? Will I know how to use it?”

“Hylia will grant it to you when the time is right, Zelda,” says her mother. “Remain patient. This power does not define you, and it never will. You will always be yourself, no matter what your destiny tells you.”

Zelda is only half-listening. She can’t stop imagining all the books she’ll read. Her tutor told her just yesterday that she was well on her way to mastering all the letters and words she needs to know.

_ I have a destiny _ , she thinks. _ I’m going to save Hyrule. _

* * *

Zelda is ten the day her mother dies.

She doesn’t feel old enough now. She feels too young for it all—for princesshood, for power, for loneliness. _ Don’t be so weary, little bird _ , her mother scolded her over and over again, joking to Rhoam that Zelda looked older than both of them combined. _ You have a whole life ahead of you. _

Looking at Elana now, Zelda almost wishes she didn’t. Who could she be without her mother to guide her? How could she live up to anything the goddesses laid before her if she had no one else to understand the terrible pain of destiny? How would she go that whole life without her mother’s soft voice, her gentle touch?

“Zelda,” whispers her mother now, and Zelda barely recognizes her. Elana’s skin is pallid with sickness, the usual sunny glow sucked from her face. The only trace of warmth remaining is in the familiar green of her eyes, though even they have clouded with exhaustion, the vivid color gone dull with terrible knowingness. “Remember yourself.” She coughs, but her voice doesn’t waver. “You decide who you are. No goddess can take that from you.”

At last, Zelda feels her eyes fill with tears. It’s only been three weeks since Elana took ill, and Zelda hasn’t allowed herself a single tear since. _ Ten years old _ , she hears her mother’s ladies’ maids murmur. _ She seems so much older. _

Her father’s answer echoes back. _ Your future requires you to grow up far faster than the other children. You cannot focus on the same things as them, Zelda. You have a job. _

Now, she can’t think of any of it. She can’t think of anything but her mother’s weary eyes, her hoarse voice. The tears scorch down Zelda’s cheeks. She grabs her mother’s limp hand in both of her own and holds it close to her chest. “Mother,” she chokes. “I need you so much.”

Elana’s smile is faraway. “My little bird,” she says, in a voice as soft as the breeze. “You are stronger than I could ever dream of being.”

Zelda shakes her head. It hurts to breathe. “No,” she says. “No, Mother, I’m not. You don’t understand.” She muffles a sob. “_ I _don’t understand. The goddesses—they want me to be so much. How can I be any of it without you?” 

With the last of her strength, Elana squeezes Zelda’s hand. “You _ can _,” she whispers, voice fierce. “Zelda. You can.” She reaches out. Cups Zelda’s cheek. Smiles, and says, “You are a miracle, and you haven’t even yet reached womanhood. My only regret is that I won’t be here to witness you grow up.”

Zelda sobs, crumbling over her mother’s delicate form. “I’m so scared, Mother,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut tight. Tear stains dry stiff and stripey down her face. “I don’t know what to do.”

“My smart, brave girl,” says Elana, stroking shaky hands over Zelda’s hair. “You will. Hyrule is so lucky to have you by its side.”

Zelda shakes. She doesn’t want to lift her head. Not now, not ever. But the thought of missing the last flash of life in her mother’s eyes is one too terrible to bear, so she looks up. A new hand comes behind her. She recognizes the firm, comforting touch of her father. Across the bed kneels Urbosa, her warrior face solemn and sadder than Zelda’s ever seen it. 

“I love you, Mother,” Zelda says. She wants it to be the last thing Elana hears from her. “Thank you for being here. For always staying with me, supporting me. I just—” She inhales. It feels like swallowing a thousand thorns at once. “Thank you.” 

The moment the light leaves Elana Bosphoramus Hyrule’s eyes, a bird chirps somewhere outside. She is smiling, but Zelda watches as the emotion behind that smile fades and fades until it is nothing at all. Until the hand Zelda grips falls limp and lifeless.

Zelda lays over her mother’s body, eyes shut tight. She won’t open them. Never—not in this dimension, this lifetime. She doesn’t want to awaken to a world where Elana is gone.

* * *

Zelda is twelve the first time she visits Zora’s Domain.

She’s been to all the other regions before—Gerudo Town, Goron City, Rito Village, and a great number more—but the Zora’s steady mistrust of the Hylian royal family has kept Zelda from this particular journey. Until now. 

“Father,” she says, as they dismount their horses and tie them to posts at the bridge, “When was the last time you visited the Zora?”

King Rhoam hums, thoughtful, leading Zelda to the entrance. “Your mother was fond of traveling frequently to each people, each town. Staying close to her subjects’ hearts and minds eased the tensions of rule. We must have visited just three or four months before she died.”

The combination of words still pricks at Zelda’s heart, but she’s learning that it isn’t the pain that will go away. She will never _ stop _ missing her mother—she’ll just stop thinking about her as much. “Mother was a wonderful queen,” says Zelda, with unfazed decisiveness. “She is the queen I wish to be.”

Her father turns his head and looks down at her. A rare smile curls over his bushy face. His hair is fully gray now, and it happened so slowly Zelda barely noticed. “She was,” he agrees. “And you will be all she was and more.” He holds out a hand. “Now come. We have a lesson in diplomacy to attend to.”

Zelda follows him into the heart of the Domain, eyes wild, taking in everything and lingering on nothing. She wishes for a pad of paper, for a pencil. Some way to record everything she sees here, all the interesting species of snails and crabs that scurried by their feet, the flowers blooming on the grassy ledge of a nearby mountain.

Her father never approved of her scholarly tendencies. He would certainly never allow her to make a trip based solely on curiosity. No, all the journeys Zelda took were centered around politics or praying.

“King Rhoam,” greets one of the guards at the end of the bridge. “We are honored to see you here after so long.”

Rhoam bows his head. “Thank you for your kindness and your welcome, Muzu,” he says. “Your home is looking as beautiful as I remember.”

The Zora man gives a nod of polite acknowledgement. His eyes flick to Zelda, who fiddles with the fabric of her travelling pants, suddenly nervous. “Princess Zelda, is it?” He smiles at her. “You look so much like your mother. How remarkable. Welcome to Zora’s Domain.”

“Thank you,” says Zelda, keeping her voice steady, as princessly as all her etiquette classes taught her. “My father is right. It’s magnificent. Everything is so different from Central Hyrule.”

Muzu laughs. “You like travelling, I take it?” He looks back at the king. “What a clever girl you and Queen Elana raised, Your Majesty.”

“She is truly the best we could ask for,” says her father. “Especially in such uncertain times.”

The smile on Muzu’s face dims. “Indeed,” he says. “Shall I lead you to King Dorephan, then?”

Rhoam gives an affirming nod and Muzu turns, leading them through the blue glassy paths to a grand staircase. Water is everywhere—at Zelda’s feet, trickling from above, falling to below. It feels like another world. She adores it. 

“Your Majesty!” calls a voice from a few feet away. Zelda jumps, surprised, and turns to see the captain of the castle knights motioning at them. He guarded Zelda’s mother when she had been around to need guarding, so she had seen him often. 

“Juran,” acknowledges Rhoam. “Surprising to see you here.”

He gives a sheepish smile. Zelda always liked Commander Juran. When he’d worked by Elana, he was genuine and always ready and willing to make Zelda laugh, but stern and steady when the occasion came about. Besides all of that, he’s terribly handsome, and when Zelda grew old enough to realize this, she spent a lot of time blushing and stumbling around him.

“My boy is good friends with a few of the Zora children,” says Juran, leaning against a pillar. “He gets so bored at the village by himself when I’m away at the castle. I like taking him out whenever I can.”

“I’d nearly forgotten you had children yourself, Commander,” says Zelda’s father. So had Zelda. She peers around, looking for any non-fish heads and finding none.

Juran smiles, highlighting the wrinkles around his face. “Yes, indeed, Your Majesty. Link is around the same age as your daughter. Thirteen, now.”

“Time certainly does fly,” says Rhoam amicably. Zelda is unused to seeing her father so casual. She often forgets he has any friends at all. He’s always so stern and courtly. “My daughter is twelve as of two months ago already.”

The commander smiles at Zelda. “She is growing up fast. Why, I see the queen in those green eyes of hers quite perfectly.”

Zelda blushes, ducking her head so her hair falls over her face.

Her father chuckles. “Zelda is still accommodating to princessly socialization.”

She scowls. Yes, she decides. She would like to go up the stairs now.

“Well, Your Majesty,” says Juran, “if you happen to finish earlier than you thought, perhaps the young princess would like to play with my son and his friends. Princess Mipha is usually around to supervise.”

“Perhaps Zelda will benefit from casual interaction,” considers Rhoam. “Thank you for the suggestion, Juran. I will inform you if this meeting is shorter than expected.”

Commander Juran dips his head. Zelda and her father continue up the staircase. The crest of the staircase opens up into a sparkling, sky blue room. In the center sits a gargantuan Zora. 

“Ah, King Rhoam,” booms King Dorephan. “An honor to host you and your daughter after so many years of unrest.”

Zelda curtsies. Her father says, “The honor is mine, King Dorephan. Without your people Hyrule would be crumbling at its seams.”

They exchange a great many more niceties and begin discussion of matters political, economic, and social. Despite her best efforts at focus, Zelda finds herself drifting. She looks from Dorephan to his extravagant throne, the gleaming weapons hung around him. 

“My daughter Mipha can take your young princess down to the others, if you wish,” says King Dorephan, and Zelda snaps back into focus. “Even for one with such an attentive ear and clever wit, you must be bored by all this formal talk, young Zelda.”

Zelda gives the king a faint smile, not wanting to appear impolite.

“Zelda would like that,” her father says. “Thank you.”

A pretty Zora girl holding an intricate trident steps away from her father’s foot. “It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty,” she says in a delicate voice, and starts for Zelda.

“Wonderful to meet your acquaintance, princess,” greets Mipha, smiling warmly. “I’m sure the children will be too.”

Zelda curtsies. “Thank you, Princess Mipha.”

“So,” says Mipha as they make their way down the stairs, “how are you liking Zora’s Domain?”

“Oh!” exclaims Zelda, then covers her mouth with a hand, cheeks red. “My apologies. My father scolds me for my excitable nature. Zora’s Domain is beautiful. I would much rather be here than locked inside my stone castle,” she says, because Mipha seems kind enough for honesty. “My fingers ache for a notebook and pencil. Research is one of my joys.”

Mipha laughs. They turn a corner. “Don’t let the stifling life of royalty keep you from your pleasures, young princess. You will live far too long to spend all the years in misery.”

“My mother used to say something similar,” says Zelda, forgetting herself. They come upon a shallow pool where three or four children clamber about.

Something on the Zora princess’s face softens. “She was very wise,” says Mipha. “You would do well to listen to her words. I was very sorry to hear of her passing.”

“Thank you,” says Zelda quietly. She hates talking about her mother’s death. She never knows what she’s supposed to say when those around her wrap her in their pitying glances and careful voices.

Among the Zora children, Zelda spots a flash of blonde hair. She cocks her head, then remembers—Commander Juran’s son. Curiosity bubbles in her stomach. She hasn’t met a great many children her own age, in all honesty.

“Children!” calls Mipha, and the splashing and laughing comes to a tentative stop. Mipha laughs. “Oh, don’t look so frightened. I have just come to give Princess Zelda a break from all the courtroom formalities.”

“Princess Zelda?” asks one of the older Zora children, standing upright. She blinks at Zelda. “You’re very golden.”

Zelda grins. “Thank you,” she says, with as much dignity as she can muster.

Juran’s son stares at her, face curiously wiped of emotion. He says nothing.

“You’re Hylian,” says Zelda, turning her face up. 

He nods slowly. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“Do you come to Zora’s Domain often?” asks Zelda, because she is secretly envious. She would kill for the chance to travel like that.

“My father takes me,” says the boy.

“Your father,” repeats Zelda. She kicks off her travelling boots and socks so her feet are bare and rolls the cuffs of her pants up to her calves. Juran’s son watches her do all this, and the expression on his face is one of confusion and unease. Zelda feels strangely refreshed when she steps into the pool with the other children.

“I know your father,” she says finally. “He used to serve my mother. He mentioned you. He said your name is Link.”

The boy nods again. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“He is a great knight,” she says, as the other children cautiously resume their playing. “My mother’s life was in good hands.”

“He would appreciate you saying so, Your Highness,” Link says.

Zelda looks down at the water, at the ripples and splashes around her bare feet. The cuffs of her pants are wet, despite her efforts, and it’s a little uncomfortable, but Zelda finds she appreciates the momentary discomfort. So much of her life is spent in easy luxury. 

“Do you plan on becoming a knight as well?” asks Zelda. “I imagine you would make quite the impression.”

“I will go wherever I am needed, princess,” Link answers. It is a frustrating, empty answer. She knows he is speaking just for her own benefit.

“Do have no dreams, then?” She gives him her friendliest smile. He blinks. “All children have at least one. Something fantastical. Something just out of reach.”

His cheeks turn a little red. Zelda delights in this internally. He is quite cute, if she is honest with herself. His blue eyes and straw-colored hair look just like his father’s. “I enjoy training,” he says. “And riding horses.”

Zelda considers. “Well, I wouldn’t call those dreams, but I suppose they will do.” She casts him a sideways glance. “Those are both very knightly hobbies, you know.”

“It runs in the family, Your Highness,” he says.

Zelda narrows her eyes at him, then laughs. “You don’t say,” she says, and then something small and slippery barrels straight into her, knocking her into Commander Juran’s son and into the water.

She sputters, spitting a long rope of wet hair out of her mouth. Link is coughing beneath her, and Zelda rolls away from him quickly, face burning. 

“Princess!” yelps the wayward object that collided with her. “I’m so sorry. Oh, my mother scolds me about my clumsiness—she’s right—”

Zelda laughs, bracing her hands behind her. “It’s alright. It’s just water.”

The Zora girl fiddles with her head-tail, eyes everywhere but Zelda’s face. “Goddesses,” she says. “Not even seventeen years of life can stop me from acting like a bumbling toddler. You are too kind, Highness.”

_ Seventeen _? thinks Zelda, baffled, then remembers that Zora grow slowly and live long.

“I’m Kodah,” says the Zora, holding out a hand for Zelda to take. Zelda does, allowing Kodah to pull her to her feet. The girl turns to Link and helps him up as well.

“Zelda,” Zelda returns, and then her father’s voice calls her name.

She turns, unsurprised to find Rhoam looking less-than-pleased at the soaked, wrinkled state of his only daughter and heir. “Zelda,” he says, “what in Hylia’s name have you done to yourself?”

“I was playing, Father,” Zelda says sweetly. “Like you told me to.”

“Your Majesty, I ran into her,” blurts Kodah. “And then I knocked her down, and she knocked Linny down, and—”

“Don’t worry, child,” interrupts Rhoam. “At least my daughter didn’t do it herself, because she is fully capable of it. I am content to know she attempted to keep her professionalism, even if it failed.”

Zelda pouts, feeling like the twelve-year-old girl she’s supposed to be. “Like there are any pools at the castle to play in,” she grumbles, stepping out of the water and ringing out her hair. “Or friends.”

“Please put on your boots, Zelda,” her father sighs. “We are staying in a guest home.”

“Yes, Father,” says Zelda. She casts a glance back to Link and finds him watching her too. She gives him a tiny smile. He tilts his head at her.

Perhaps she is capable of making friends.

* * *

Zelda is fifteen when she sees Commander Juran’s son again.

She doesn’t know him, not really, but she is fascinated by his ability, by his prestige. He is the youngest to be knighted in Hyrule’s history, and that certainly counts for something. Sixteen years old and completing what most don’t until their mid-twenties.

To her displeasure, Zelda has little time to watch ceremonies or immerse herself in courtly activity. She spends at least five hours a day crouched in front of the statue of the goddess, praying, _ begging _ for a glimpse of her power, for a hint that it even exists. Time spirals away—days into weeks, weeks into months, months into years. 

Fifteen seems to her like a long time to go without any sign of hope. The Calamity is on the rise—everyone knows it, everyone feels it, and no one speaks of it.

Monsters appear where they never would have before, bigger and toothier than they would have been before. They need twice the army—twice the force—to protect Hyrule.

They need _ Zelda _, and Zelda is as useless as any other noblewoman ditzing her way through the castle gardens. 

But for now, she watches the knighting ceremony with half-attempted interest. She is dressed in her most princessly attire—a deep Hyrule-blue dress embellished with gold. Her hair is up in a bun crafted of loose curls, a gold-and-sapphire tiara laced into her hair.

Link strides to stand before her father and bows low. The elder knights watch him with emotions ranging from jealousy to disgust to intrigue. 

Rhoam recites the required lines. Link stays kneeled. Absently, Zelda wonders if it hurts one’s knees to remain bowed for so long. Perhaps that is the true test of strength in knighthood. Perhaps she will ask one of the men about it.

When Link’s ceremony is complete, Juran rises from his seat and pulls him into a firm hug, patting his back. Zelda watches, scanning Link from head to toe when they release each other. His hair is longer, half of it tied into a short ponytail at the back of his head. She can make out the glint of blue earrings on his delicate ears. His skin is tanned and when he turns and looks at her, she sees that his eyes are just as blue as she remembers.

Zelda forces herself not to blush. She stares him down, keeping her face prim and fixed. He raises his eyebrows at her. Zelda looks away. 

There are no more men to be knighted. Zelda rises from her seat by her father’s side. Without looking back, she turns and makes her way to her chambers.

The goddesses are no more merciful today than yesterday. Zelda kneels there until midnight.

* * *

Zelda is sixteen when Purah and Robbie give her the Sheikah Slate.

It is, arguably, the best thing that has happened to her in at least a year.

“This is _ bewitching _,” Zelda exclaims without raising her head, tapping through the Slate’s different runes and settings. “It is simply magnificent.” She looks up at her friends, beaming with joy. “Thank you for showing it to me.”

Robbie winks. “Purah argued we shouldn’t,” he says. “She said you would do nothing else for at least a week.”

“Oh, she was right,” says Zelda. “I’m beside myself. You have no idea how—I can do so much with this! My studies—everything can move so much quicker! Surely my father can say no more that my research is of no help to us.”

Purah gives her a grim smile. “I hate to say it, princess, but I wouldn’t be so quick to jump to that conclusion.”

Zelda sighs. “I’m afraid you’re right, Purah. My father has begun to see me more as a tool than a daughter, I fear.”

“A useful tool, at least,” says Purah. “I know how much you love tools. I assure you, I was in physical pain watching you and Robbie moon over those wretched-looking Guardians.”

Zelda laughs. “Admit it, Purah—you’re interested by them too.”

“Damn right I am, Your Highness,” Purah says lightly. “I’m sensible, not ridiculous. Those things could do the work of a second army against Ganon.”

“I wouldn’t call you sensible,” says Robbie. “Have you ever heard of the term ‘mad-scientist,’ Zelda?”

“I thought that was you, Robbie,” Purah shoots back.

Zelda loves Purah and Robbie. She wishes her father allowed her more time with them, to do nothing but fiddle with ancient tech and research the medicinal qualities of herbs and flowers. Her hours knelt in the springs begin to feel more and more like useless rituals. More and more she questions her mother, questions her destiny. If they had gotten it wrong.

But if they had been wrong, who would be the princess? Who would help the chosen hero, when push came to shove? Would Zelda be begging Hylia in vain for the rest of her life, reaching for something that had never existed in the first place?

No. Her father was right. For the sake of her kingdom, she had to keep trying. She had to keep hoping. Her mother would never let her give up.

“Princess!” calls a familiar voice, and Zelda whirls. She holds a forearm over her face against the whipping force of Revali’s updraft as he lands with a final grandiose flap before the three of them.

“Revali,” she greets, pleased. She has enjoyed the presence of the Champions around the castle more frequently, especially Urbosa, who she missed relentlessly when away. “What news do you bring?”

“Oh, nothing much,” he says, dusting off his tunic. “Only that your father has chosen a Champion for Hyrule, and it’s the seventeen-year-old boy who just pulled the Master Sword out from its place with little-to-no effort. Other than that, it’s been an uneventful day.”

Zelda nearly drops the Sheikah Slate. Robbie yelps, placing a balancing hand on her wrist. “You’re kidding,” she says.

“Ugh,” says Revali. “You have no idea how much I wish I was kidding.”

“They found a hero?” she demands. 

“Yep!” he chirps, mock-cheerful. “And clearly, this boy has proved his worth to his kingdom. He held a sword! The goddesses bow to him.”

Zelda curses. Purah laughs. “Oh, this will be fun!” she says. “And here I was thinking I’d be bored waiting for evil to doom us all. Thank the goddesses.”

“Who is he?” Zelda says, hooking the Sheikah Slate onto her belt. “Is it someone we know?”

Revali ruffles the feathers on his neck, sniffing. “Well, I’m certain _ someone _knows him, princess,” he says. “But I’ll tell you that I’ve never seen him before, and that he’s very short. Even for a Hylian.”

“I need to find my father,” Zelda mutters to herself. “Oh, goddesses above. This is a disaster.”

“You’re telling me,” agrees Revali. “One would think we should get someone who at least looks strong to wield our magical, evil-defeating sword.”

“If you can imagine, Revali,” Purah says, voice dry, “I don’t think that’s how this works.”

He sighs, long-suffering. “The goddesses must be out of their minds. Is that more accurate, Purah?”

“I think it is,” Zelda tells him. 

Revali crosses his wings. “The one good decision they made was making our princess half of the team,” he says, and winks at her. “Don’t sell yourself short, Highness.”

_ Give me a reason not to _, she wants to say. Instead, Zelda smiles good-naturedly and waves goodbye to Robbie and Purah. Revali jogs to catch up. 

“So,” starts Zelda as they make their way to the castle entrance. “What do we know about our goddess-chosen hero?”

“That he’s goddess-chosen,” says Revali, and Zelda snorts. “Unfortunately, I’m serious, princess. He’s been a knight for about nine months, he’s newly seventeen, and he doesn’t speak if not spoken to. Lucky us, right?”

Zelda turns to look at him, stopping short. “Link,” she says, and mentally hits herself for not thinking of it before. “_ Link _ is the hero?”

“Is that his name? I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“He pulled the sword?” she demands, surprised at the burst of anger in her chest. “_ He’s _ the worthy one, then? After everything, you can give it to a nobody kid who stumbled his way into knighthood but not the princess who prays day and night for the same thing?”

“Why do I feel as if you aren’t talking to me?” Revali asks dryly.

“How is that fair?” Zelda snaps. “Revali, what did he do that I can’t? Am I not smart enough? Brave enough? Faithful enough?”

“Princess, everyone in this castle knows you work harder than anyone else. You’ve proved yourself a hundred times over.”

“Not to the goddesses, clearly,” Zelda says. She grits her teeth against the bitter surge of resentment—of fury—rising in her throat. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to see him. Tell my father that I’m going to visit the goddess.”

Something in Revali’s feathered face softens—an uncharacteristic sympathy. “Don’t kill yourself praying to a selfish goddess, Zelda,” he says. “And don’t let this boy make you feel less than you are.”

Zelda hardly hears him. She runs. When she arrives at the statue, she falls to her knees. Sharp tears of frustration prick like tiny needles at her eyes. Her throat feels hollow and dry. _ Tell me _ , she begs. _ If you just speak to me, maybe I can understand. Maybe I can accept it. _

There is nothing, but somehow this nothing is a thousand times worse than all the nothings of the past sixteen years. This nothing eats at her, extinguishes the last of her hope. Turns it to bitterness—a sour tang on her tongue.

_ Hyrule _ needs _ me _ , she thinks. _ My people need me. You created this prophecy. You told them it was me. You gave them hope. Don’t make me take it away. Please don’t make me take it away. _

Nothing, nothing, nothing. 

Zelda sobs. Her nails scrabble at the rough stone. She feels the sting as it digs into her fingers. Ignores the drip of blood from the cuts. 

_ What haven’t I done? _ she pleads. _ What else can I do? Make me understand. _

_ Mother _ , Zelda thinks, curling in on herself. _ She would know what to do. _

“Zelda,” a stern voice says into the cloudy daze of her mind. “Zelda. Get up.”

Zelda blinks her eyes open. The world has fallen dark around her. The statue stands still above her, as cold and blank as it was when she arrived. “Urbosa,” she says.

“Little bird, get up,” says Urbosa, and Zelda takes her hand.

Urbosa holds her hands in her own once Zelda has risen to her feet on shaky legs. She turns them over in her own hands, examining the blood, the dirty nails. “Zelda,” she says again. “What are you doing out here?”

Zelda swallows. “Praying,” she says, voice hoarse. “I didn’t realize—”

“That you had been kneeling out here for fourteen hours?”

Zelda shuts her mouth. “Fourteen?”

Urbosa strokes a tangled strand of gold hair from Zelda’s face. “Stop this, child. You’re helping no one, least of all yourself.”

“I’m helping someone!” snaps Zelda, jerking her hands away. “I’m helping my kingdom. I need this power, Urbosa. You know that. We don’t stand a chance if I don’t harness it, even with the sword that seals the darkness.”

“You’re a living thing, Zelda,” says Urbosa sternly. “You can’t spend your whole life in front of a carved piece of rock. You’re even less use to us dead.”

“I’ll die for this kingdom if I have to,” says Zelda, voice sharper still. “You know that.”

“We _ all _ know that, you ridiculous, stubborn girl,” says Urbosa, and grabs Zelda’s hand, pulling her away from the statue and in the direction of the castle. “But the point is, you can’t die. Even if I didn’t love you like my own, I would stand by that.”

They walk in silence for a few minutes. Zelda’s knees ache. Her elbows and shins are scraped. Blood and dirt muddy the beds of her fingernails. As they approach the castle, Zelda musters the strength to speak.

“Urbosa?” she asks, and her voice is small. Urbosa looks over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Am I letting her down?”

Urbosa stops short. Slowly, she says, “Are you letting who down?”

Zelda swallows. “My mother. She always believed in me more than anyone else. I just feel like—if she could see me now, what would she say?”

“Zelda,” says Urbosa, and her fierce tone makes Zelda look up and meet those familiar, pressing eyes. “If you truly think your mother would be disappointed in who you are now, you didn’t know her at all. You are everything she was and more. You are a miracle. Your dedication to your kingdom is unwavering, despite your outside interests. Your love for your people—for their future—guides your every move. You will be the best queen Hyrule ever sees upon its throne.”

A long time ago, Elana said those same words. _ You are a miracle _, she said, a last breath on her tongue, touch as soft as cotton on Zelda’s cheek, Zelda’s tears spilling onto her face.

“I don’t miss her all the time,” Zelda confesses, voice barely a whisper. “But when I do, I feel like I’m drowning in it. Like I’ll never do anything ever again but miss her.”

Urbosa smiles then, just the outline of sadness lining her face. “But then you do,” she says, just as soft. “You get up, you think of something else, and don’t miss her again until the next time. _ Zelda _,” she says, and grabs Zelda’s shoulders. “You’ll be okay. Now come on. It’s already past one in the morning. We don’t want your father orchestrating a hunt in your name.”

Zelda takes her hand. They climb the stairs to the castle. For a moment, everything is okay.

* * *

Zelda is sixteen when her father assigns Link as her personal guard.

This is, simply put, a miserable development. The only places he doesn’t follow her are the washroom, and—if she’s lucky—her bedroom. But, as she’s found over the past weeks, there are exceptions to the bedroom rule. If there is disturbance close to the castle, if someone has infiltrated the guard, if it is a Thursday, Link can stand guard in the corner of her room like an eerie, looming ghost.

The last of her privacy gone in a blink. What remained of her independence sucked up by a single decision from her father. 

Needless to say, she does the best she can to get rid of him at every chance.

“I have to go to the washroom,” she tells Link stiffly. “Stay here.” 

By mere coincidence, she takes a long detour and drags her feet as she explores the greenhouse. _ Then _ she makes her way to the washroom.

“I have a private message to deliver to Impa,” Zelda says, and privately writes this message, takes a stroll outside to clear her head, and then turns in Impa’s direction.

Of course, it doesn’t take long for Link—or her father—to catch on. Zelda’s fun is cut off at its roots. She feels like a child being scolded for acting out. 

Revali was right—Link rarely speaks unless spoken to first, and even then, his responses are clipped, monosyllabic, always punctuated with a polite _ Your Highness _. Zelda spends a great deal of her time studying him when he isn’t looking, trying to dissect the blankness in his face—hoping to find something deeper than that blind loyalty. She is never successful.

Sometimes, she’ll catch a glimpse of him with one of the other knights or squires, and double take at the smile curling at his lips, the sound of his laugh.

He never smiles around Zelda. She doesn’t blame him.

Despite her talk with Urbosa, Zelda spends more time still crouched before the lifeless statue of one of the goddesses. No matter which one—Nayru, Din, Farore, even Hylia—she receives nothing but hours of blankness. Hours of cold seeping into her skin, hopelessness gnawing its nasty teeth into her heart.

Having Link with her on these excursions is far from a comfort either. No matter which way she turns or how tight she shuts her eyes, the presence of that stupid sword blares at her, gleaming in the corner of her eye, scraping against rock by mistake.

Each time, she feels that hole in her heart grow blacker and blacker.

Eventually, she decides she’s had enough. Zelda crawls out her window in the midst of the night and rushes on light feet for the stables, where she mounts and prepares her horse and rides off towards Gerudo Town.

This freedom, too, is fleeting. Urbosa greets her there. She doesn’t scold Zelda, or even chide her. They tie up the horse. One of the guards brings Zelda a glass of water. Urbosa allows her to go out on a survey on her own. Afterwards, the two of them climb the stairs to Naboris and sit on its balcony for hours and watch the sun fall below its dark horizon. For the first time in months, Zelda falls asleep content.

Though it would be too much to awaken content too, of course. Which is why she startles awake to find none other than her beloved knight standing before them.

Urbosa laughs at Zelda’s outburst of surprise. Zelda scowls at her and shivers against the night air. 

“You truly couldn’t allow me a full day of freedom, could you?” she asks him, voice cold as the air.

Link doesn’t respond, which is expected but irritating.

“Fine,” snaps Zelda. “Don’t speak. Who needs to say anything with a sword like that on their back?”

His lips thin, which is better than nothing. Good to know she can get under his skin after all. 

“Urbosa, I’m going inside,” she says, and brushes past Link. When she falls asleep this time, it is restless, filled to the brim with nightmares of Hyrule in ruins, of Guardians and Divine Beasts reigning terror down upon those they were designed to protect, and worst of all—

Zelda in the middle of it all, powerless.

* * *

Zelda is sixteen when she realizes she was wrong.

She is within eye-range of the entrance to Gerudo Town gathering voltfruit for elixirs when she hears footsteps. She looks up, instantly on her guard.

Three people make their way towards her, hands extended in surrender.

“Worry not, girl,” says the one in the middle with a grin that sets Zelda’s skin crawling. “We’ve just come from Kara Kara Bazaar. We were wondering if you know any tricks.” He winks. Zelda starts to back away. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he cooes. “I only meant tricks to get into Gerudo Town.”

“Don’t touch me,” she snaps.

“Jumpy, aren’t you?” remarks the one on the right. They come closer still.

Zelda drops the voltfruit. She runs.

One of the men exclaims in anger. Zelda pushes forward, cursing herself for lingering for so long. When she risks a glance over her shoulder, her suspicions are confirmed.

The Yiga Clan, in the flesh.

Zelda runs and runs. Over the hazy distance, a cloud of sand gathers. She can already feel the thickness of the air when she breathes. Despite her best efforts, she’s not used to running, and even adrenaline can’t keep her going at full speed for so long. When two of the Yiga skid to a halt around her, the panic starts.

Zelda braces herself. _ Well, Goddesses _ , she thinks, _ I hope you have someone else to harness your power and seal away the dark. _

And then the sharp edge of the sickle so close to her face flies away, and before her stands Link, panting and holding that damned sword before him.

It’s over in a flash, but Zelda doesn’t take her eyes off Link to see the Yiga men fall to the ground. 

“Come on, princess,” Link says, sheathing the Master Sword and holding a hand out. “A sandstorm is coming in.”

Zelda gapes at him. “I—I don’t—” _ I don’t know why I’m so rude to you. I don’t know if I’m better off alive or dead. I don’t know how to do any of this, and I especially don’t know how to know you. _

In the end, she takes his hand, rising on unsteady legs and allowing him to lead her back to Gerudo Town. 

“Your father has requested you be home by tomorrow night,” says Link as they approach Gerudo Town. “Sleep tonight, princess. We leave early in the morning.”

Frustration—_ disgust _, disbelief at herself—curls itself at the pit of Zelda’s stomach, heavy and cloying. Over and over, she replays the scene in her head. Three armed Yiga, bouncing in and out of view, dancing around Zelda with deadly grace, then—

Link with that sword, beating them all back within seconds, rising without a scrape. Holding his hand out to her, barely out of breath, unsurprised at her speechlessness, at her lack of thanks. 

Zelda thinks, _ Perhaps I am truly unworthy of my power. _

They walk in silence through the entrance. Zelda doesn’t speak as Urbosa wraps her in a blanket, ushers her into bed, runs gentle, scolding hands through her hair. Night falls. The sandstorm shifts through the air outside, turning over into nothing. Zelda stares at her hands. She doesn’t sleep. Her mind races, too fast for clear thought, for reasoning.

Dawn peaks over the horizon. Zelda’s cheeks are stiff and salty with tears. She doesn’t remember crying. Urbosa opens the door. She says, “Little bird,” in a voice thick with sadness. She kisses Zelda’s forehead. She tugs Zelda into her arms. Zelda clutches onto her like she’s hanging off a cliff.

“I’m sorry,” says Urbosa. Zelda doesn’t know what she’s sorry for. Zelda is the one who’s sorry. Zelda will never stop being sorry—sorry for how she’s treated Link, sorry for how she’s failing her kingdom, sorry for her weakness.

Link doesn’t say anything when he sees her, only gives Urbosa a curt nod and turns to where their horses are stationed. Zelda follows, desert sun hot and itchy on her skin.

“Sir Link,” she says, after what feels like hours—what probably _ has _ been hours—her voice scratchy with disuse. They are crossing from the desert into greenland, horses slowing to allow for a brief rest. Link looks back at her, visibly surprised at her voice. “I—” She swallows. “Thank you. You saved my life yesterday.”

His face shutters again. Zelda feels it like a physical blow. “It is my duty, Your Highness.”

It is an expected answer, but Zelda still wishes he would say anything—anything at all—to show her he might actually care about something else. She feels like she owes it to him, after everything. She wants to know him, wants to know how to make him smile like he smiles with his friends at the castle. “No, I don’t mean—” She turns her steed’s reins over in her hands. She stares at the wide expanse of land ahead. “I’m sorry.” She clears her throat. “I’ve treated you terribly for months. There is no excuse.”

He looks at her then, head tilted, mouth parted, and his face is open, displaying his bemusement. Zelda thinks, _ It is my fault he is so astonished by the idea of an apology _. “You need not explain yourself to me, princess” is all he says.

“I’m not,” Zelda says, more sharply, and pulls her horse to a jerky stop. Link stops too, turning his horse to face her. There is a furrow between his brows that hadn’t been there before. “I’m not explaining myself to you. I’m apologizing, because you are a person, and the fault is my own for failing to see that for so long.” She hesitates. “I will certainly not blame you if you don’t forgive me.” Bitterness creeps into her voice, that old hatred for herself, that suffocating blackness that is always with her, no matter the time or place.

He doesn’t respond at first. His face is blank again, but his eyes are steady on her face. She has his attention, his complete focus. “I forgive you, princess,” he says, and that frustration rears its ugly head in Zelda’s gut.

“I’m not telling you to forgive me!” she exclaims, and the force of her voice spooks her horse. Zelda blinks, reaching down to soothe her steed with an apologetic hand. “I’m not saying this as your princess, Sir Link. I’m saying this as a girl who has realized she made a mistake, and you are allowed to be angry with me.”

He studies her. The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “You said that you have realized that I am a person,” he says. Zelda looks at him, surprised at the genuinity of his response. “And I forgive you, because you are right. You aren’t just a princess. You are a girl who makes mistakes.”

Zelda stares at him. For some reason, a blush creeps onto her face. “Right,” she says, and flicks the reins, turning her head away. “Well. Good. I suppose we should keep going, then.”

He doesn’t answer, but this time the silence doesn’t crawl under her skin. Zelda hides a smile in her shoulder.

* * *

Zelda is newly seventeen when she loses the last of her hope.

At her father’s demand, and her own reluctant agreement, she and the Champions start for Mount Lanayru, where the final spring rests. Her journeys to both Power and Courage ended the same as any—with Zelda soaked to the bone, shivering in her prayer dress, her empty, powerless hands more devastating than any fatal wound.

She is a woman now, and the Spring of Wisdom is the one closest to her own heart, her own blessing. She forces herself to believe, if only for this final attempt. 

“Whatever happens up there, little princess, we need you with us,” says Daruk, as they stand at the foot of the mountain, bundled into their warmest attire. Zelda will change into the prayer dress when she and Link set up camp near the spring. Snow whispers against her cheeks. Her hands are stiff with cold beneath her mittens. 

Zelda attempts a smile. Daruk has never faltered in his endless kindness, his faith in her. She doesn’t deserve him—doesn’t deserve any of them, really. “You’re kind to say so,” she says. Lanayru towers over them, its rocky cliffs blanketed in snow. Zelda’s breath hovers before her in a thick cloud. 

“I’m _ right _ to say so,” he corrects, thumping a massive hand on her back. Zelda stumbles.

“Though he lacks the grace to deliver it, Daruk speaks true, princess,” says Revali. Even here, below this monstrous mountain, he appears undaunted. Zelda wishes for an ounce of his confidence. “You are far more than a piece of this puzzle. You are our friend, and we will not let you throw yourself away.”

_ Friend _. The word is warm, in stark contrast with the frosty air. When did Zelda end up with so many friends? How does she have so much to lose now, when losing is most probable? How far does the cruelty of the goddesses reach? Her smile loosens. She allows herself a quick jolt of happiness, of graciousness. “Even if Hylia will not bless me with her power, she has blessed me with each of you.” She swallows. “And that means far more.”

Mipha smiles. “We feel the same, princess.” Her yellow eyes are steady, as assured as Revali without the Rito’s overconfidence. “Don’t freeze to death up there.”

“Yes,” says Urbosa, with familiar dryness. “Please don’t. We have an unearthly evil that is just as willing to kill you.” She narrows Zelda with a stern look. “Take care of yourself, Zelda.” She looks at Link. “Make sure she takes care of herself.”

“We believe in you,” says Mipha. “See you in the morning.”

“Happy birthday, little princess,” says Daruk. “When we get back to the castle, we’re celebrating for real.” He grins. “_ Without _ the threat of hypothermia.”

Zelda laughs. It comes out choked. She isn’t quite sure why. “Hyrule could never ask for better Champions,” she tells them. With a final smile, she musters Urbosa’s conviction, Revali’s confidence, Daruk’s kindness, and Mipha’s strength. She takes Link’s hand. Together, they begin the trek up Mount Lanayru.

It is far colder up there on the mountain than it was standing at the foot. Zelda shivers, the chatter of her teeth relentless. Link starts a fire. Zelda lays out their blankets and bedrolls in an expanse of rock without much snow. She rubs her hands together and watches the sun sink beneath its rocky, tree-strewn skyline.

_ This is Hyrule _ , she thinks, a new fierceness flooding her bloodstream. _ This is my home, and I will protect it with or without your help, Hylia. _

Link stands when the fire has been lit. The orange flames dance in the depth of his eyes. Everytime he looks at her, Zelda feels stuck in place, pinned by that ethereal blue. Strange, she thinks. His silence used to irritate her. Now it’s a quiet assurance, a gentle comfort. _ I’m here _, his eyes say.

“I should change,” she says. Link nods. He draws his sword, turning his back to her, eyes on the far corners of their stake-out. Zelda strips out of her many layers and steps into her prayer dress and gold-laced sandals. She exhales. “Okay. I’m ready.” _ Ready as I’ll ever be. _

He turns back to face her and holds out a gloved hand. She takes it, envious of his thick coat and wooly mittens. He grabs her other hand and rubs both of hers between his own. Warmth tickles her bare skin. Zelda watches him steadily. 

“I’m glad you’re here with me,” she tells him softly. She removes one of her hands and touches his cheek, filled with some distant resolve. 

She likes how he looks now, nose and cheeks flushed with cold, his bright eyes and hair vivid against the monotonous white surrounding them. Zelda presses her forehead against his. She fights against the urge to shut her eyes. She wants to remember every detail of this moment, every flutter of his eyelashes, every bob of his throat.

“Zelda,” he says, and her heart aches.

“I wish we had more time,” she says, and she doesn’t mean now. Some prophetic dread lingers in the farthest corner of her heart, some calm knowledge of what is to come. _ It is rising _ , Hylia whispers in her ear. _ You were born for this _, the princesses of the past say, flashing their familiar eyes at her. 

He smiles, just the barest curl of his lips. Zelda swallows back tears. “We could have all the time in the world,” he says, words hardly above an exhale, a whisper, “and it still wouldn’t be enough for me.”

She laughs. It sounds more like a sob. She cups his bare cheeks. Runs her thumbs over his lips. “Perhaps I can work out something with the goddesses,” she says wryly. “_ Hylia, I understand that you refuse to give me your blessing, but can you please make Link and I immortal? _”

She feels his laugh beneath her fingertips. _ Not enough _ , she thinks. _ Never enough. _ He sobers then, the laugh fading out, the smile softening. “You can do anything,” he tells her. He turns his head and kisses her palm. “No damned goddess can convince me otherwise.”

Zelda’s jaw tightens. She lets her hands fall away. “It’s time,” she whispers. He nods. They walk into the spring hand-in-hand. Nayru looms above them, far more daunting than the mountain before. Zelda takes a deep breath. Link gives her hand one last squeeze.

Zelda steps into the pool. She grits her teeth against the terrible ice of the water. It’s so cold it feels like nothing at all, like her feet and calves have detached from her body entirely. Bracing herself, Zelda kneels. _ It isn’t so bad _ , she tells herself. _ You won’t even notice soon. _

With Link standing his silent guard behind her, his presence an unmoving comfort, Zelda lets herself drift away into her own mind.

It feels like no time at all. “No!” she says, when she feels Link’s hands on her shoulders. Zelda struggles. Tears spill from her eyes, scouring their fiery paths down her icy cheeks. “No—wait—I can do more—I _ need _ to do more— _ please _—”

“Zelda,” he snaps, and his eyes are stern, angry but—not with her. With something else. “It’s morning. You’ve been here nearly thirteen hours. You can’t _ do _ this.”

Zelda stops writhing. She feels limp, drained of all life. Link guides her out of the spring. He picks her up when they reach the exit and lays her on a pile of blankets. He relights the fire. Zelda stares at the flames as they spring into existence. The heat burns her face. 

Link lays two of her fluffy coats over her arms. 

“How did you do it?” she asks him finally, voice sucked of all feeling. He looks at her, frowning. “Did you feel anything? Some holy power? A great realization?”

His eyes soften. “Zelda,” he says.

“Because I don’t—I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. What _ haven’t _ I done? Why haven’t I done enough? What more do they want from me? How am I supposed to save my kingdom? I can’t let them down. How can I live with myself if I let them down? I don’t understand—my mother, her mother— _ everyone _ . What did they do that I can’t?” She looks at him at last, that void in her chest opening up, eating up the last of her hope, her faith. “Link,” she chokes, throat _ aching _. “How do I tell my father I’m sorry?”

He watches her—not with pity, or even sympathy. With understanding, and a fierce passion hidden somewhere behind that. “Don’t you understand?” he asks her softly. “You’ve done more than anyone else in this whole kingdom has even dreamed of. I don’t know what the goddesses are playing at, Zelda, but _ fuck _ them for giving you hope like that. Fuck them for building you up only to tear you down.” He tilts his chin up, jaw clenched firm. “You are the strongest person I’ve ever met,” he says, voice low. “Did you know that?”

Zelda swallows. “I don’t think I deserve you,” she tells him honestly. Then, “I won’t let Ganon destroy our home.”

Link shakes his head. “None of us will.” He rises to his feet, a hand extended. Zelda takes it. Together, they roll up the blankets and bedrolls. Link stomps out the fire.

When they reach the foot of the mountain, their friends stand there, faces open and expecting. In her mind’s eye, Zelda sees their faces fall as she tells them of another failure. _ I’m so sorry _, she wants to say, before anything else, but doesn’t. How could she ever express how much she wishes she could be with them, sailing alongside, working as a team to save Hyrule?

“Well?” presses Daruk as Link and Zelda reach them. “Don’t keep us in suspense. How’d everything go up there on the mountain?” His twinkling eyes say he’s kidding, mostly, but Zelda’s heart still gives a painful thump.

She stops. All around them, Hyrule stretches, the corners of their world bent far and wide. _ I don’t want to lose you _, she thinks to the mountains, the blue sky, the soft wind. 

Zelda doesn’t know if she can speak. She looks down and shakes her head. She doesn’t want to see the look on their faces. 

Revali steps forward. “So you didn’t feel anything?” he asks, voice far gentler than she ever remembers hearing it. “No power at all?”

Zelda doesn’t look at him. “I’m sorry, no,” she says, each word a knife in her throat.

“Then let’s move on,” says Urbosa, unaffected. Zelda looks at her, memorizing the sharp lines of her face, the stark green of her eyes. “You’ve done all you could. Feeling sorry for yourself won’t be of any help. After all, it’s not like your last shot was up there on Mount Lanayru. Anything could finally spark the power to seal Ganon away.” She pauses. “We just have to keep looking for that. . . thing.”

Zelda is silently grateful for her old friend’s blunt honesty, even if some of her words feel wrong. _ You don’t feel what I feel _ , she thinks, endlessly sad. _ Our time is coming to an end. _

“That’s kind of you,” says Zelda. She hides her clenched fists in the wet folds of her dress. “Thank you.”

“If I may,” begins a soft voice, and Zelda looks up to see Mipha, hands folded before her. “I thought you. . . Well, I’m not sure how to put this into words. I’m actually quite embarrassed to say it.” For the briefest heartbeat, her eyes flicker behind Zelda. Mipha looks down, shy. “But I was thinking about what I do when I’m healing. You know, what usually goes through my mind.” She looks back at Zelda, and Zelda is surprised at the resolve there, the fierceness. “It helps when I think—when I think about—”

She stops. All around them, the world shakes. Zelda loses her balance. A steadying pair of hands come up behind her, holding her still. Revali leaps into the air, but a bone-deep feeling of dread creeps up Zelda’s throat, sitting like bile on her tongue.

The five of them watch with bated breath as Revali hovers in midair, high above the ground. The sky shakes with relentless crashes, and all of them know what he’s going to say before he lands.

“It’s here,” says Urbosa.

“This is it, then,” says Daruk.

“Are you sure?” asks Mipha.

“Positive,” says Revali, voice dark.

Zelda’s eyes are on the sky. “It’s awake,” she whispers. “Ganon.” She can’t stop looking at it—the pink and purple flairs of lightning, the horrible symphony of roars and snarls. It’s brilliance wafts over all of Hyrule, but Zelda knows where it must be. The castle. _ My father _ , she thinks. _ Impa. Misko, the poet. Link’s father. _

It’s Daruk’s voice that finally breaks her away. “Let’s stop wasting time! We’re gonna need everything we got to take that thing down.” He raises his hands. Zelda sees the destiny in his eyes—in all their eyes. “Now Champions!” he shouts. “To your Divine Beasts! Show that swirling swine who’s boss!” He looks around at them all. “Link will need to meet Ganon head-on when we attack. This needs to be a unified assault.” He turns to Link. “Little guy! You get to Hyrule Castle.” Link’s nod is firm. Zelda thinks of the night before, of his quiet voice telling her that all the time in the world together still wouldn’t be enough. 

“You can count on us for support,” Daruk continues. “But it’s up to you to pound Ganon into oblivion!”

Urbosa comes up behind her, rough hands on Zelda’s shoulders. “Come,” she says. “We should go. We need to get you someplace safe.”

Zelda thinks of all the useless hours she’s spent crouched before some merciless stone statue, all the life she’s wasted looking for something that likely doesn’t exist. She thinks of all her journeys around her kingdom—of all the beaming faces of her people when they see her. She thinks of her mother, of the smile on her face when she died—of the way she never once stopped believing in Zelda.

She jerks away. “No,” she says lowly, and turns around. “I am not a child anymore.” Zelda clenches her jaw, lowering her eyes. “I may not be much use on the battlefield, but there must. . . there must be something I can do to help!”

Daruk scratches the back of his head. He looks at Link. Link is watching Zelda, and his eyes betray nothing. Zelda makes the decision for them. She is tired of everyone but herself making choices for her.

“My father is at the castle,” she says, and crosses her arms. “I am not leaving him. I’m going with Link.”

“Princess—” Revali begins, but Zelda cuts him off.

“No,” she says, stronger this time. “It is high time I start taking control of my own destiny. For too long I have sat powerless, waiting for something else to live my life for me.” Zelda looks around, committing each of their faces to memory. She has a feeling she’ll need them sometime soon. “Hyrule is my home, and I am its princess. This is my duty.”

Urbosa looks at her. “You remind me more and more of your mother every day,” she says. “Go. Make your kingdom proud. We are with you every step of the way.” Her eyes are so familiar, so comforting. Zelda hopes against hope that this isn’t the last time she’ll see them so bright. “Good luck, my little bird.”

Zelda nods once, because she’s not sure she can express her gratitude like she wants to if she speaks. 

“Princess,” says Mipha, and Zelda looks at her. “I think about someone I love. Someone that makes me happy.” She takes Zelda’s hands, the raw determination on her face blazing through Zelda’s veins. Mipha squeezes her hands. “You are stronger than you know.”

Zelda’s eyes burn. She barely feels the tear that traces its way down her face. “Thank you,” she says finally, voice hoarse. “Thank you all.”

“Blow us all away, Highness,” says Revali, and winks at her.

“Ganon will never know what hit ‘em!” says Daruk.

Zelda takes a last long, hard look at each of their faces—these strong, wonderful friends of hers, and for the first time in months, feels hope. _ With them by my side _ , she thinks, _ I can do anything. _

When she turns her back, Link is waiting for her, hand outstretched. _ Ready? _ his eyes ask.

_ More than I’ve ever been _, Zelda thinks. She takes his hand.

* * *

Zelda is seventeen when she understands.

She _ understands _—understands the goddesses, understands her mother, understands Mipha. For the first time in her life, the only thing she feels is certainty.

She forces herself not to think of all Purah’s words as she watches the two Sheikah warriors carry Link’s broken body away. The shrine will bring him back, and that is all that matters. Rain needles away at her skin, washing away dirt and blood and memories. 

The sword feels right in her hands. Zelda knows what to do as well as she knows her own mind. She runs and runs, and Hylia’s grace flows through her bones, pumping through like the strongest of adrenalines.

And when the great Deku Tree twists and turns before her, as tall the sky is wide, Zelda feels nothing but that calm conviction. 

“Your master will come for you,” she tells the sword, placing it on it’s pedestal. “Until then, you shall rest safely here.” She kneels before it, lacing her hands together. “Although the Slumber of Restoration will most certainly deprive him of his memories, please trust me when I say that I know he will arrive before you yet again.”

Above her, the sky opens up. The rain has stopped. Sunlight dapples the ground around her, bouncing off the great, gleaming blade of the Master Sword.

“If I may be so bold,” rumbles an ancient voice. “What is it that you are planning to do next, princess?”

Zelda rises, facing the Deku Tree. She looks again at the sword. “The Master Sword,” she begins, “I heard it speak to me.” She clenches a fist to her chest and looks up. “It seems that my role is unfinished. There is still something I must do.”

“I sense there is great strength in your dedication,” says the tree.

She bows her head in a nod. “Great Deku Tree,” Zelda says. “I ask of you, when he returns, can you please relay this message?” She steps forward, heart so full of that certainty, that understanding. “Tell him I—” 

“Now then,” says the Deku Tree. “Words intended for him would sound much—better in the tones of your voice, don’t you think?”

Zelda smiles. She thinks of seeing Link again, of watching his eyes light up when she finally tells him that she— 

“Yes,” she says. 

She looks one last time at that sword, that mighty blade she spent months hating, blaming. _ Thank you _, she thinks to it, and feels the glow of its power rise up in response. Zelda takes the hilt of the sword into her hands.

When she pushes it back into the stone, it goes so smoothly she is sure it never left at all.

Zelda goes back to the castle. She doesn’t look at bodies strewn across the marble floor, the blood painting the grass. She doesn’t look at her father’s empty throne. There will be time for grief later. Ganon’s Malice surrounds her, and all she can feel is Hylia’s righteous fury at the ruin brought upon her land.

“Ganon,” she says, and it’s her voice but it isn’t Zelda, not really.

_ Hylia _ , that deep, familiar voice snarls in response. _ Do you truly think you can still win? _

“Your destiny has always been failure,” says Zelda. She walks up the marble steps. The gore and broken stone vanishes around her with each step. “The boy will awaken soon enough, and your reign will come to an end for another ten-thousand years.” She smiles. “How many times must we go through this?”

It snarls at her, gnashing teeth and spitting ancient curses. Neither Zelda nor Hylia pay it any mind. 

_ Your Hyrule will pay for your mistakes, Hylia _, it hisses at her.

“Perhaps,” says Zelda. “But not this time.”

She rises, and finally—_ finally _, after so many years of hiding, of watching from the sidelines—she unleashes the full force of her light upon Ganon and its Malice.

Many years pass, but it’s hard to notice at all. Zelda spends her time watching over her kingdom, caught in an incorporeal daze, fighting back Ganon, keeping it at bay. For now, the two of them are pretty evenly matched, but he will be brought down with ease when Link wakes at last.

Ganon never gives in, never tires of lashing against Hylia’s brilliant cage, but Zelda doesn’t waver. She has done this many times before. She knows she has. She knows how to fight now.

_ You live in false hope, Hylia _ , Ganon spits at her, over and over, always with renewed viciousness. _ Your hero is dead, and he has been dead for decades. _

Each time, Zelda smiles. _ Our fate is written in stone, you great ugly hog. _

It snarls and snarls, flings at her insecurities and failures of the past, taunts her with the faces of old friends, deceives her into happiness. Zelda uses his attacks for her own gain. When Ganon conjures up Urbosa’s stern warrior face, Zelda remembers how much the Gerudo Chieftain loved her—how much she loved Urbosa. When he finds her mother hidden in the depths of her memories, Zelda strengthens herself with that strong, gentle face. She repeats her mother’s words until she knows them all by heart.

Ganon whips at her careful walls, showing her flashes of Link’s face overcome by fury—by disgust. _ I don’t know who you are _, he spits at her, blue eyes hating and wrong—so, so wrong. This attack hurts, somewhere deep down, where that seventeen-year-old girl is still buried inside her, unaging and hopeful.

_ You will _, she tells that Link, and he vanishes in a swirl of angry red smoke.

_ You cannot win for much longer, Hylia _ , Ganon says eventually, when enough time has passed that Zelda sees the memories of her physical life through a translucent window. Sometimes, she presses her hands against that window to clear its fog, in moments where she is desperate to remind herself that she is still real. _ You are weakening with each year that passes. _

It is right. The power dims, less each day, and Zelda feels across her kingdom for Link’s consciousness more and more.

Each day that passes without Link’s awakening, Ganon grows more and more smug, taunting and leering at Zelda, eager for her downfall. She keeps her head up. Link will awaken. She is more certain of that than anything else in her rapidly-changing world.

When he does awaken, Zelda surges her power at Ganon, unable to risk the petty pleasure. She lets that seventeen-year-old girl free for a heartbeat, then locks her back up. _ Soon _ , she tells herself. _ At long last, the worst has come to an end. _

She watches him on his journey, guides him when he needs guidance. Her father guides him, and when his spirit disintegrates into a curl of blue flame, he smiles to Zelda.

_ My daughter _ , he says. _ You are everything your mother was and more. _

One by one, Link reclaims the Divine Beasts. Ganon roars like a limb has been ripped from its roots each time. Link spirals across Hyrule with the help of the Sheikah Slate. He meets the leaders of each group, and Zelda’s heart aches at Riju, at Teba, Yunobo—at grown up Prince Sidon.

Each time a Beast is freed, she savors that last glimpse of her old friends.

_ It’s been too long _ , Mipha tells her, that soft voice full of familiar conviction. _ Thank you for all you’ve done, princess. _

_Looking just as young and beautiful as always, Your Highness _ , says Revali, and a hundred years haven’t diminished that arrogant lilt in the slightest. _ Keep it up. _

_ See? _ says Urbosa. _ What did I tell you, my little bird? You’ve done just fine. _

_ Little princess! _ shouts Daruk. She can almost feel the friendly, painful thump of his hand on her shoulder. _ You were right, after all. Our little hero is doing pretty good, isn’t he? _

_ Rest well, all of you _ , Zelda says, smiling wider than in a century. _ You deserve it. _

_ Don’t you dare insinuate I’ve gotten old _, sniffs Revali.

_ Tell Sidon I couldn’t be prouder _, says Mipha.

_ Keep an eye on Link _ , Urbosa says, and Zelda wishes she could see those clever eyes, that playful wink. _ And make that giant hog scream in pain for me. _

_ Keep that little golden head up, princess _ , Daruk tells her. _ Just a little longer. _

Gradually, Link begins to remember. Zelda is immensely grateful for the pictures on the Sheikah Slate. Link grapples with monsters, his fighting skills stronger than they’d been all those years ago.

And when, after so many years of waiting, Link journeys into Hyrule Castle for the first time since his knighthood, Zelda smiles and says to Ganon, _ Are you prepared yet, you wretched beast? _

It lashes against her restraints, furious beyond words, and Zelda laughs and laughs, feeling wild—crazy—just on the brink of freedom.

And then Link is there, right before the throne, covered in armor Zelda doesn’t recognize, face a mask of determination, of grim knowingness. Ganon wails and writhes, and Zelda feels Hylia’s strength give its last go before breaking completely.

Zelda calls Link’s name wildly and watches as he looks around for its source. “I’m sorry,” she gasps, “but my power isn’t strong enough. I can’t hold him—”

And then Ganon breaks free, and Zelda feels Hylia go with him, away to watch this foretold destiny play out as its been fated to for over a century. Her old friends call out in triumph, relishing their final chance at revenge, and the Divine Beasts give it all their ancient strength.

Ganon screams in pain, and Zelda allows herself a grin. _ It’s been far too long _, she thinks. 

Link fights, and it’s over before she has time to think much else. Then, suddenly, they are out in the field, where she and Link walked a hundred times in another lifetime, examining flowers and critters. 

_ This is it _ , she thinks, as Ganon spirals itself into that true, terrifying, Malice-ridden form. _ This is the destiny Hyrule has waited for a century. _

It’s over so fast. Link flings arrow after shining arrow at the beast, and finally—_ finally _, goddesses, it’s been so long since Zelda felt the dirt beneath her feet, the grass tickling her ankles—Zelda is released from her century-old prison.

Link and his horse pant behind her, nearly drowned out by Ganon’s thunderous screams of pain. Hylia’s light illuminates the spot of red-clouded sky Zelda stands in. She gives her kingdom’s tormentor a final vicious, triumphant look. She feels Hylia’s grace fill her once again—one last time, and that holy voice says— 

_ You have fallen, great beast. You have failed once more. Stay away from Hyrule, for each time you attempt to conquer, you will be slain by my very best. _

Ganon snarls at her, but it is weakening fast, its Malice spiraling away into the dark sky. 

Zelda stands straight. She lifts her hand. “Goodbye,” she says, voice just above a whisper, and smiles like the edge of a sword before the world goes up in a blaze of heavenly light.

When the glow and the Malice clear, Zelda takes a deep breath. At long last, she is herself and only herself. At last, she can feel fresh air in her lungs, feel the wind lifting her hair, smell the fragrance of wildflowers. She says, “I’ve been keeping watch over you all this time.” She hears grass rustle with footsteps behind her, but she doesn’t turn. Not yet. “I’ve witnessed your struggles to return to us as well as your trials in battle.”

She swallows. “I always thought—_ no _, I always believed—that you would find a way to defeat Ganon.” Zelda turns around and— 

There he stands, dressed in his blue Champion’s tunic—the one she’d made for him herself, all those years ago—eyes bright, hair still in that little ponytail. “I never lost faith in you over these many years.” Zelda smiles, then. She can’t stop herself from smiling. _ We did it. _ “Thank you, Link,” she says. “The hero of Hyrule.”

He watches her, the way he used to watch her when their relationship was still precarious. And Zelda hopes—no, Zelda _ needs _—

“May I ask. . . .” she begins, the words she’s ached to say since his eyes opened a year ago in the Shrine of Resurrection. “Do you really remember me?”

Link doesn’t answer at first. His horse whinnies from somewhere to their left. Zelda doesn’t take her eyes off him. With each second that passes in silence, her heart sinks a bit lower. And then Link speaks.

“I don’t remember everything,” he confesses. “It comes to me in flashes. But. . . .” He hesitates. Link meets her eyes. “I remember some of it. I remember you.”

Zelda’s heart bursts. She says, “You really—you think—”

He smiles at her, and the smile is so familiar that Zelda sobs. When she was locked in the castle, the years passed like seconds. Time whistled away, leaving her behind. But now, standing in her kingdom like she hasn’t in a century, Zelda feels the time crush all its weight over her at once.

_ I missed you more than words can ever say _ , she wants to tell him, but knows it can wait. He’s still remembering, she knows, and the time for recalling and missing will come soon. _ I waited a hundred years already _ , Zelda thinks. _ This is nothing. _

“You held back Ganon for a century,” he says, and Zelda looks at him, blinking back the sting of tears. Slowly, she nods. Link smiles at her again. “You are just as much a hero as me.”

She laughs. She can’t help it. It’s so like Link—_ her _ Link—to share the brilliance of his victory. “You did all of that in a year,” she tells him. “Without any memories. I was half-possessed by a goddess for a hundred years.”

A shrug. He says, “We saved Hyrule, princess.”

Zelda laughs again. She feels like skipping, like flying. Together, they walk back towards the castle. If Zelda squints, she can see five blue lights, hovering over the tallest spire of Hyrule Castle. 

_ At long last _, Zelda thinks. She waves at them. One by one, they flicker away.

* * *

Zelda isn’t eighteen, not really.

A true eighteen-year-old girl wouldn’t feel out of place in her own home, wouldn’t be taken by surprise with every new turned corner. A true eighteen-year-old girl wouldn’t cling desperately to anything old, anything familiar. Zelda feels, for lack of better terms, like she has been chewed up and spit out.

Even Link—the only connection to her past, the only thing she has to hold onto—fits into this new world. Villagers smile at him, random travellers stop short to greet him. Zelda has never felt quite so turned around. A hundred years ago, it was her who was praised and adored at every turn, and now—

Now, not a soul knows her face. Zelda doesn’t know who—or _ what _—she’s supposed to be now. Just once, she wishes for an ounce of that old certainty, that feeling she’d been so full of for a hundred years.

“Kakariko is right up ahead,” Link says to her, breaking the wavering silence between them. 

“I know,” Zelda says, sharper than she intended. _ I know _ , she thinks, frustrated enough to cry. _ I used to be the princess of this kingdom. _ Link says nothing in response.

She can’t wait to see Impa, to tell her everything, to see those familiar eyes, that knowing grin. Perhaps a familiar face is all she needs. Despite the slow return of his memory, she feels as if she hardly knows Link at all. It hurts more than she’ll ever say aloud.

Kakariko Village looks different, too, and seeing it hurts some distant, hopeful part of Zelda she wasn’t even aware of. She curses herself for being so selfish, so absorbed in her own head. Of course it’s changed. A hundred years is no short amount of time.

She takes a shaky breath as they dismount their horses and tie them to a post. “Well,” she says, as brightly as she can manage. “Everything here looks good.”

Link gives her an odd look, but remains silent. Zelda feels his silence like a knife to the heart.

She takes the lead into the village. If there’s one thing she knows for sure—and it might very well be the _ only _ thing she knows for sure—it’s that Impa wouldn’t have moved houses. She was always such a stubborn mule. Zelda smiles to herself.

The two elder Sheikah men standing at the foot of the staircase hold up hands to stop her, suspicion glinting sharp in their eyes. Then they catch sight of something behind her and grin wide and true.

“If it isn’t the hero of Hyrule himself!” exclaims the man on the right. Zelda shifts to the side, uncomfortable.

Link grins back, easy and content. “Hello, Dorian.”

“Good to see you alive, friend,” says the one on the left. Zelda stares at her feet.

“We worried you’d be eaten alive, kid,” says the one named Dorain.

“You can never be too careful,” Link agrees. “Good to see you both, as well.”

“Who is the girl?” asks the Sheikah on the left, narrowing Zelda with that distrustful look.

Link looks at Zelda, eyebrows raised. _ Your call _, his eyes say. Zelda takes a steadying breath. “Zelda,” she says. “I’m here to see Impa.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s quite a claim, young lady.”

“It is,” Zelda agrees, because she’s had enough of explaining herself to strangers. “But I promise you, if you let me through, Impa can tell you just how honest I am.”

He looks at Link, who says, “She’s telling the truth.”

Neither man bows, or even expresses a word of kindness, but they step aside. Zelda ascends the stairs, and to her quiet relief, they haven’t changed at all, save for a bit of weathering on the wood. 

A Sheikah girl stands at the top, sweeping the deck with careful grace. When she sees Link and Zelda she yelps and drops the broom. “Master Link!” she squeaks, cheeks going a vibrant shade of pink.

Link gives her a wave. “Hey, Paya.”

Paya goes redder. She looks at Zelda and her eyes go wide as saucers. “Oh!” she exclaims, high pitched. “Oh, Hylia! It can’t be! The—the princess!”

“Hello,” says Zelda, secretly relieved that she doesn’t have to explain her identity to someone else. “Is Impa home?”

“My grandmother?” Paya asks, then flushes. “Oh, of course. My apologies. She’s just inside.” She swallows visibly. “If you’d like, I can show you inside.”

Zelda smiles, hoping it conveys how grateful she is. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

Paya leads them inside, and despite everything, Zelda isn’t prepared for the sight of her old friend so old, so changed. Impa’s height has shrunk considerably. Her face is a dull gray, lined with enough wrinkles to count the years past.

But when she smiles, Zelda knows the woman before her is the same as the one from her childhood.

“Zelda,” says Impa, her voice gravelly and warm and more amazing than anything Zelda has heard in the three weeks since her return. “I am so happy to see you back here after so many years.”

Zelda isn’t sure what to say. Her voice sticks in her throat. She shakes her head, eyes flooding with tears. She doesn’t think she’s ever cried more in her life than in the past weeks. She feels weaker than ever. “Impa,” she whispers, and flings herself at the old woman. 

Impa laughs, and the deep sound rumbles through Zelda’s chest. “You brave, beautiful girl,” she whispers, and Zelda pulls back enough to see her eyes. Impa moves a tangled strand of gold out of Zelda’s eyes. “How in the goddesses’ name did you manage it?”

Zelda smiles. “I barely did,” she confesses. “If it weren’t for Link, Ganon would have eaten me alive.”

“Give yourself some credit, child,” says Impa. “You must give me some space to breathe.” She winks. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I seem to have gotten old. Time has escaped me, princess.”

Zelda steps away, wiping roughly at her cheeks. “Me as well,” she says. “It feels as if I blinked and a century had passed.”

Impa laughs again. “Well, no one would know by looking at you, would they?” She looks Zelda up and down, the fondness in her eyes a hundred years old. “Still as young and lovely as the last time I saw you.”

“A blessing and a curse,” says Zelda dryly. “No one will believe me when I tell them who I am.”

“You’re talking to the wrong people,” Impa tells her. Zelda snorts. “Have they seen that Triforce on your hand, then?”

Zelda frowns. “Well, I. . . .” She looks at Link and finds him examining the back of his right hand, brows furrowed. “I don’t want to seem vainglorious.” 

Impa cackles, throwing her head back. “Ah, and you still have all the insecurities of a teenager. Child, have a hundred years truly not taught you to do what’s needed before what’s polite?”

Zelda scowls. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“And thank the goddesses for that,” says Impa. “This town would fall to pieces without me.”

“Thank the goddesses for that,” Zelda agrees. “I don’t think I could bear it if you had changed along with everything else.”

Impa’s brows shoot up. “Has Hyrule really changed so much, princess?”

Zelda hesitates, glancing to the side. Link watches her with curious blue eyes. “I just feel like—” She stares at her feet, shifting from side to side. “I used to have a purpose,” she blurts at last. “Even when I hated every part of it, I at least knew who I was _ supposed _to be. Now, it’s like—” She clenches her jaw. “It feels like everyone but me knows who they are.”

“That’s ridiculous,” says Impa before Zelda can take another breath. Zelda opens her mouth, indignant, but her old friend holds up a silencing hand. “No, listen to me. Zelda, you have just come back after a hundred years away from civilization. It is natural—expected, even—that you feel out of place. But trust me, no one ever knows who they are. You were lucky to have that privilege in the past, despite what it took out of you.”

Zelda grinds her teeth. Impa is right, but something isn’t sticking. “Fine,” she says. “So I was not thinking outside my own box. But. . . .” She looks back at Impa, at the wrinkles in her face. If she tries hard enough, she can see Impa the way she used to be, lithe and lively and newly thirty. “I don’t fit in here, Impa. I don’t belong in this Hyrule, and it’s tearing me apart.” She looks at Link, whose attentive gaze pins her in place. “Even Link is taken in with open arms.” She gives him a weak smile. “And rightfully. It’s just. . . .”

“You feel as if no one here knows you,” finishes Impa. “No one accepts you the way you’re used to being accepted.”

Zelda blows out a half-laugh through her nose. “I suppose so,” she says.

Impa’s old eyes soften. “They will,” she says. “If Hyrule knows what’s good for it, it will accept you. And if it’s lucky, it will damn well know you the way you long to be known.”

Zelda smiles. “I certainly hope so,” she says. She feels deflated—feels as if there is no fight left in her.

Impa gives her one last smile. “Link can show you to the inn, my dear. You both must be exhausted.”

Though she is loathe to leave behind the one part of her past left, Zelda allows Link to lead her to the new location of the Kakariko Village inn. People talk with him amicably as he passes by. Link waves, as friendly and approachable as Zelda remembers herself being. Children cling to his legs, beg him to play. No one bats an eyelash at Zelda. 

They reach the inn. Neither of them have very many belongings, save for Link’s weapons and the Sheikah Slate, so settling in is easy. The sun begins its slow descent into the trees. Zelda drifts away into her own mind. She stares listlessly at the three triangles ingrained into her skin, into her soul. _ Is this all I am? _ she thinks, filled with some helpless desperation. _ If my destiny is fulfilled, what use am I? _

She never spared a thought to life after the Calamity. She never wanted to give anyone false hope, least of all herself. For so long the problem had been right before her, always almost here. Now, Zelda feels useless. The people don’t need her, not really. They haven’t needed her for a century, and now they should be better than ever.

A calloused hand lands on her own. Zelda looks up. Link sits beside her on the bed. The inn is empty tonight, and Zelda finds herself grateful. She doesn’t think she could handle another young woman mooning over Link, or another scornful look from a child.

“Princess,” he says. “Impa is right.”

Zelda looks away. Through the window, she can make out the crested cliffs of the Dueling Peaks, the spikes of her castle. “You used to call me Zelda,” she says.

He squeezes her hand. “Zelda,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, smiling. “What in Hylia’s name do you have to be sorry for?”

He presses their shoulders together, the movement almost hesitant, as if he’s afraid Zelda will pull away. Zelda nearly scoffs aloud at the notion. Why would she ever refuse physical contact after a hundred years of loneliness? 

“I’m not what you need,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry I can’t be what you need.”

Zelda wants to cry. She turns to face him. He’s so close—so gorgeously, temptingly _ right there _. She wants to shake him, to grab his shoulders and make him understand.

“None of this is your fault,” she tells him, pitch nearing desperate. “Do you understand that? This is the opposite of your fault. You’ve done everything you were supposed to and so much more. You _ are _ the hero of legend. You deserve happiness more than anyone else here.”

Link’s hand laces with her own. “You did just as much as me, Zelda,” he says. “Why do you insist on brushing over everything you’ve done, everything you’ve accomplished?”

Zelda fists her free hand in the duvet. “I just need time, Link.”

“And that’s okay. _ I _ need time. But you can’t keep happiness from yourself forever. You deserve it, I deserve it—hell, all of Hyrule deserves it.” His voice is steady, fierce as she remembers. “But at some point you have to accept that it isn’t going it come to you. You have to let yourself have it. Do you understand?”

Zelda wants to kiss him more than she’s ever wanted anything. Instead, she says, “I hope you’re telling yourself the same thing, hero of Hyrule.”

He smiles wryly. “I’m working on it, princess.” He gives her hand one last squeeze. “You should sleep. We’ve traveled a lot today.”

“I will,” says Zelda, and means it. “But not if you’re standing guard by my bed the whole night.” She narrows him with a stern look. “You aren’t my assigned knight anymore.”

Link hangs his sword and shield on his bedpost. “We’re safe tonight,” he says, and his eyes twinkle. “And I’m exhausted. See you in the morning.”

Zelda watches the shadows move across the wall. Link is right. _ Happy _. “See you in the morning,” she says.

_ Can I really be happy? _

* * *

Zelda isn’t eighteen, not really, but she's starting to think she can be okay with that.

Gerudo Town doesn’t look exactly as it did the last time she saw it—a hundred years ago, struck with confusion and self-loathing—but she’s learning that change can be for the better. Some change especially, she thinks, eyeing Link’s sneaky Gerudo-garb. 

“Can I have one of those outfits?” she asks aloud as they are allowed into Gerudo Town with no trouble at all. “I think I like them.” 

Link shoots her a look—a sharp warning that only makes her laugh and dance away from his batting hands. “Don’t look so amused,” he says. “Everything makes the Gerudo suspicious. You’ll blow our cover.”

Zelda muffles a snort into her hand. “Right. _ I’ll _ blow our cover.”

“Be mature, princess,” he sniffs, and pushes his way in front of her.

Zelda feigns offense, gasps with an added ounce of melodrama, and collapses with giggles. Link whirls on her, pushing her into one of the more secluded alleys. Zelda presses her forehead into his shoulder, shaking with laughter.

“Stop it,” he says, voice stern, but she can see the dance of mirth in his blue eyes.

Zelda shakes her head, unable to speak. Link backs her into the sandstone wall. 

“Since when are you taller than me?” she asks him, pouting. “Did you finally get your hundred-year growth spurt?”

“Maybe you shrunk,” Link suggests. Zelda swats him, and laughs again.

“Sorry,” Zelda breathes, when she gets ahold of herself. She beams at him, relishing the feel of his warmth so close to her. _ Touch me _, her mind begs. She doubts any amount of touch will ever make up for that century with nothing but evil’s incarnate for company. “I suppose I’m just—happy.”

Link smiles at her. He shakes his head. “That’s okay. As long as you don’t get us kicked out of Gerudo Town.”

Zelda covers his mouth with her hands, making exaggerated shushing sounds. “I’m not going to be the one who gets us kicked out,” she whispers. “I’m _ allowed _ in here.”

“I’m allowed in here as long as I’m wearing this,” Link says, pulling her hand away. “Now come on. Riju’s waiting for us.”

_ You should wear that all the time _, thinks Zelda, and for a moment she doesn’t move, just roves her eyes up and down Link’s retreating form. Then she blinks out of her daze, scolding herself internally. Her skin burns where he had touched her through her clothes.

Zelda follows him. For obvious reasons, Gerudo Town reminds her of Urbosa. Zelda sees her old friend’s smile everywhere, feels the remains of her strength with every step. She recalls a memory from years ago, recalls Urbosa pulling Zelda’s unconscious form up from the rough stone. 

_ I don’t miss her all the time _ , Zelda said about her mother. _ But when I do, I feel like I’m drowning in it. Like I’ll never do anything ever again but miss her. _

Urbosa had smiled. Stroked Zelda’s cheek. If Zelda closed her eyes, she could feel the phantom of that gentle touch now. _ But then you do _, Urbosa said.

The irony isn’t lost on Zelda. She feels the loss of all her old friends—the loss of her old life—everyday, unlike the loss of her mother. When Zelda missed Elana, she missed her voice, her easy comfort, her unwavering faith.

Missing her friends—her _ life _ —is worse. It makes her feel like she’ll never get to move on, and she needs to move on. _ Hyrule _ needs to move on if she wants to build it from the ground up. Missing her mother never came with any of those worries.

As if sensing her melancholy, Link grabs her hand. They reach the grand stairs leading to Riju’s throne—no longer Urbosa’s. _ And that’s okay _, Zelda tells herself. She thinks she might be able to believe it, one day.

“Riju is easy to talk to,” Link says to her in a quiet voice as they ascend the staircase. “She won’t be hard to convince.” They pass the guards stationed at the top of the stairs and into the throne room.

As soon as she sees them, Riju perks up, smiling with enough warmth to rival the desert heat. “Little voe,” she says, delighted. “You’ve brought me a princess!”

The Gerudo to Riju’s left casts Zelda an assessing look. “Princess?” she questions. “Of what domain?”

“Buliara, don’t tell me you’re too old for stories,” says Riju. On her right armrest is the Thunderhelm. The last time Zelda saw it, it was on Urbosa’s head. “If there’s a hero, there’s a princess.”

Buliara raises her eyebrows. “Hyrule’s own storybook princess,” she says. “You look just as golden as the poets say.”

Zelda smiles, bemused. “You believe me?”

“Hylia doesn’t give the Triforce to just anyone,” says the chieftain’s right-hand.

“Right,” says Zelda, and Link grins at her.

Riju’s mouth curls. She’s impossibly young, Zelda thinks. She looks barely as tall as Zelda. “It’s good to see you again, Link,” she tells him. “Adjusting well to your freedom from destiny?”

“It’s a lot to get used to,” says Link. “But we’ll push through.”

Riju nods. “Yes, I imagine you will.” She looks both of them over. “What is the reason for your journey this time?”  


Link steps aside, allowing Zelda to stand before Riju’s throne. “I come with a question regarding politics.”

“Politics,” Riju repeats. She taps her fingers on her throne. “Don’t leave me hanging, princess.”

“Hyrule can’t go back to how it used to be,” Zelda says. “To grow, we must learn from our past, not hold onto it. There were numerous issues with the monarchy a century ago. Many felt unrepresented in their small towns and communities. Others wished for more voice in decision-making. I proposed that we gather a representative from each domain, each people, who will confer with their own on important matters.”

Riju smiles and leans forward, propping her chin on her hand. “You are just as wise as all my old scholars used to say,” she says, eyes twinkling, and for a moment she looks like Urbosa. “Are you asking me to represent the Gerudo?”

Zelda nods once. “I can tell you value your people. Already, you are a strong warrior and a better chief.” She smiles sadly. “You remind me of an old friend.”

Riju’s smile fades. “Urbosa,” she guesses. “Princess, you honor me with your words. I can only hope to live up to Lady Urbosa’s legacy. Her strength was unparalleled.”

“Yes,” says Zelda softly. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t be strong, too. Let your own feet guide you, Chieftain Riju. You control your own destiny, and you’re far better off learning that now than in a hundred years.” Her smile turns wry. “Believe me.”

Link gives her hand a squeeze. She tugs back.

“It’s strange, hearing such old words from such a young mouth,” admits Riju. “But you’ve more than earned the right, princess.” Her eyes harden. “Thank you. I accept your offer. Though I admit, I am curious about something.”

Zelda raises her eyebrows. “Of course.”

Riju hesitates for a moment, then says, “Princess, I wonder about the Divine Beasts. They are free of Malice now, and could aid us greatly in troubled times.” She lifts a sheepish shoulder. “As much as we all wish it wasn’t so, Ganon will not be the end of Hyrule’s struggles.”

“You’re right, Chieftain,” says Zelda, and waits for Riju to continue.

The younger girl nods and swallows visibly. “If they are put into use, they will need pilots.” She straightens, folding her hands in her lap. “Champions.”

Dread tickles the top of Zelda’s spine. _ Ganon is dead _ , she tells herself. _ The Beasts are safe. Any new Champions will be safe. _

“If I am as strong a warrior as you say—” Riju sets her jaw. “I would like to man Vah Naboris.” 

Zelda expected it, but that doesn’t stop her palms from sweating. “Riju—”

“I know,” Riju says. “I know it must be painful for you.” She stands from her throne and steps forward. “I can’t imagine how you must feel. I only worry for the fate of my people, and our kingdom.” She meets Zelda’s eyes. “I know you feel the same.”

“I do,” says Zelda softly. Distantly, she wonders if Urbosa had been like this when she was young—so headstrong, so determined to do good. “And I’m not saying no. I admit, the topic of the Beasts has been heavy on my mind since their release. If I am to truly help rule Hyrule, I will have countless decisions to make, probably ones far harder than this.” She steps towards Riju. “You have what it takes to pilot Naboris. When the time is right, you will represent your people as Champion.”

Riju’s eyes flare with hope. “Thank you, Your Highness,” she says. “I won’t let you down.”

Zelda smiles. She feels world-weary, suddenly. “No, you won’t.”

“You have done more for Hyrule than I could ever imagine,” says Riju. “I want to do the same.”

It’s in these words that Zelda sees Riju’s youth—her unshakable faith, her wide, dreaming eyes. “I think Hyrule needs you how you are, Riju,” she says.

Riju studies her. She looks at Buliara, who crosses her arms. “I promise to be whatever my kingdom needs,” she says. “Bertri, show our guests to the nicest rooms we have open.”

One of the women standing guard inside the palace salutes. She leads Link and Zelda out of the palace, laces them through the streets and to an empty house just outside the markets.

“Our guest house,” Bertri explains, and gestures them inside. “Enjoy your stay. Chief’s orders.”

Zelda murmurs her thanks. She and Link file into the little home, shutting the door behind them. Zelda slumps onto the bed there, deflating with a single breath. “Goddesses help me,” she says to the ceiling. “I’m not even queen yet.”

The bed creaks as Link sits beside her. “There’s more to come,” he warns. “It’s only been four months since the Calamity. Hyrule needs governance.”

Zelda cracks an eye open. “She reminds me of Urbosa.”

“You said that,” says Link. He’s smiling, just a little, at the corner of his mouth. 

“How is she so wise?” Zelda demands. She rolls onto her side and rests her cheek on her fist. “She can’t be older than fifteen.”

“Something pushed her,” Link says. “She had to grow up faster than the other children.”

The words itch at her memory. Zelda frowns at him, and remembers—she told him something similar about herself a long time ago, something about a long-lost little girl with too much in her mind. “Link,” she says, in a small voice. “How much do you remember?”

“More, lately,” he says. “The more time we spend together now, the more I remember what it was like with you then.” He slants a smile at her. “You didn’t like me much, did you?”

Zelda scrambles to sit up. “Don’t tell me the only thing you remember is me being horrible to you.”

Link laughs. “No. I’m teasing.”

“I apologized,” says Zelda defensively. “We were friends—we were—”

She stops. She doesn’t have a word for what they were. Not just friends, not quite lovers. Somewhere in between. Everything before the Calamity was surrounded by an air of uncertainty.

“We were something,” Link finishes softly. “What were we, Zelda?”

She swallows. Their knees touch on the bed. His eyes hover somewhere below her eyes. “I don’t know,” she says, just as quiet. She watches Link’s hand inch across the bedcovers, watches it take her own. Zelda meets his eyes. “What are we now?”

His eyes widen. “Zelda,” he says. His throat bobs. “Do you—”

She’s waited a hundred years. She kisses him.

Link releases her hand. Zelda cups his face, touch feather-light. She pulls away, holding their foreheads together. “We almost did that, once,” she says, breath against his lips. “On Mount Lanayru.” She looks into his eyes. “Do you remember?”

Something in Link’s eyes breaks. “Zelda,” he says again, and this time his voice is hoarse. “I can’t _ stop _ remembering.”

He grabs her face in his hands and presses their lips together, fingers lacing into the hair at the back of her head. Zelda grapples for the collar of his tunic, heart bursting with desperation a century old. 

She slants their mouths together, opening his lips with her own. She wants his mouth on every inch of her body. She wants his hands on her, touching every place at once. Zelda runs her fingers through his hair, feels the tie fall out of it. She tugs on it when it’s loose around his shoulders.

Zelda kisses his cheeks, his nose, his forehead—kisses every part of his face and then lower, down to his jaw and the hollow below his ear. She bites his collarbones and presses open-mouthed kisses along his neck. Link pants below her, hands roving over her back, tangling in her hair and pulling up her shirt, revealing her bare skin to his hands.

She gasps when he puts his hands on her back. Link drags her back to his mouth. “I’m never letting you go,” he says. Zelda inhales his words and kisses him harder.

She whispers his name against his lips, holier than any god, over and over until she can convince herself she isn’t dreaming. “Touch me,” she says. “Goddesses above, Link. _ Touch me _.”

He touches her. His hands burn all over her body, branding every inch of her skin. Zelda wrestles her shirt off, then her pants, leaving only her chemise. Link drags his lips down her neck, and she yelps when he nears her breasts.

Link jerks upward, eyes boring into her own. “What’s wrong?”

Zelda laughs breathlessly. “Nothing.” She pulls him in. Kisses him softly, slowly. “Just happy.” He grins at her, lips red and hair messier than she’s ever had the pleasure of seeing it. She reaches for the laces on his tunic. “Thank the goddesses I remember how to undo this thing,” she says, and kisses the skin beneath his jaw once, a barely-there brush of the lips, and yanks the tunic over his head.

Link is still laughing when she pulls him in again, and this time there is no fabric to stop her from touching him all over his chest, feeling the smooth muscle, the rough scars. Zelda follows the path of her hands closely with her mouth. Link twitches beneath her when she nips at his pectoral, and makes a half-moan, half-gasp sound when she puts her mouth on his nipple.

“Zelda,” he gasps, and Zelda never wants to hear her name again if not like that, breathy and adoring. He tugs on her hair, and she lifts her head. “Wait. Let me—”

He kisses her, wet and hot. Zelda pushes him backwards, so he lays on his back and she straddles his hips. She grabs his hands in her own and puts them on her chemise, right on her breasts. “Touch me,” she tells him, and then he really does.

He puts his mouth on her breasts through the fabric, and grips her thighs tight in his hands. Heat gathers low in Zelda’s stomach. She shifts her hips against the hardness beneath her, and Link tilts his head back with a strangled noise.

He swallows. For the first time in her life, Zelda can see his restraint—that careful, unwavering mask—spiraling away. “Is this okay?” he asks.

Zelda crawls back over him and kisses him once. “I love you,” she says. “I’ve loved you for over a century. There is nothing in the world I would rather be doing.”

Link stares at her, mouth parted. He says, “I think I’ve loved you since that day you talked to me in Zora’s Domain when you were twelve.”

She strokes his face. “We don’t have all the time in the world,” she whispers. “But we have our whole lives ahead of us, and that’s more than I ever dreamed I’d have.”

“Me too,” he says, then grabs her hips. “But we should make it all count.”

Zelda’s laughter is high and shocked when he rolls them over, but it doesn’t remain laughter for very long. Even a hundred years of sleep, she discovers, is not enough to make him forget just what to do with his tongue.

* * *

Zelda is one-hundred-nineteen, but today she’s never felt younger. 

How old does she have to be to feel ready for this? She’s outlived both her parents—outlived all the kings and queens of the past. How were any of them ready, when the time came?

She’s never seen this many people in her life. People from every corner of her kingdom gathered in the gardens, in the courtyard—Zora, Goron, Sheikah, Rito, Gerudo. Zelda doesn’t know how to be what they need, but for the first time she feels strong enough to try. 

The long train of her dress trails behind her. Sunlight sparkles from the gold embroidery, dazzling the air around it. It’s a near copy of the dress she wore a century before, but Zelda is far from the same girl who wore it then.

All down the aisle, bright faces whisper congratulations, encourage her, praise her. Zelda thinks, _ I will not let them down. _

She climbs the few stairs up to the altar. Link, Riju, Kaneli, Sidon, and Bludo stand in a line before her. Riju winks. Sidon’s sharp-toothed grin widens.

Zelda turns. She faces her people. From behind her, the jeweled crown sitting askance on his blonde head, Link steps forward. Zelda resists the urge to touch her own crown. 

She swallows, casting him a glance. He nods once and holds out his hand. Zelda takes it.

If she listens, Zelda can hear her mother’s voice echo from high above. _ Little bird _ , she says. _ No destiny could ever define you. _

Zelda smiles. Later, she will walk back to the castle as its newly-crowned queen. At long last, she will be ready. She will be free.


End file.
